


I Believe in Sherlock Holmes

by squishyflamingo



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Explicit Language, F/M, Gen, I Believe in Sherlock Holmes, Other, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-04 02:43:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1075588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squishyflamingo/pseuds/squishyflamingo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“On the late afternoon streets, everyone hurries along, going about their own business.</p><p>Who is the person walking in front of you on the rain-drenched sidewalk?</p><p>He is covered with an umbrella, and all you can see is a dark coat and the shoes striking the puddles.</p><p>And yet this person is the hero of his own life story.</p><p>He is the love of someone’s life.</p><p>And what he can do may change the world.</p><p>Imagine being him for a moment.</p><p>And then continue on your own way.”<br/>― Vera Nazarian, The Perpetual Calendar of Inspiration</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Believe in Sherlock Holmes

**Author's Note:**

> In the beginning of 2012 I wanted to turn a minor event in my life into a "I Believe in Sherlock Holmes" ficlet. It served purpose of journaling my (and my friend's) strange night in London while simultaneously paying a bit of homage to some of my favorite literary characters. 
> 
> Here's to our heroes, in fiction and fact, that strengthen resolve so we may also understand weakness.
> 
> (The first section (2011) is entirely true until "the man" on the train platform comes into play. Everything else, of course, is a mix of waxing poetic with truth.)

20 September 2011

11:56PM; London, England

We fled from Bush Hall to the Underground, dresses billowing like parasails with London winds (reminding me very much of Chicago winds back home) driving us forward. It was nearing midnight, the last train for the evening, and our Cinderella magic was quickly wearing off from the Fionn Regan concert.

I silently congratulated both Annie and my strange decision to wear canvas shoes instead of heels, despite the ensemble clash, because we zipped by with Oyster Cards brandished onto the train just under the wire.

The ride was quiet, lyrics still lingering like a hum on our lips, different songs meshing together.

_Those weasels in the weeds await to jump us…_

_If you ever, if you ever_

_One had a screwdriver and one had a cutlass_

_Come back this way_

_We counted the beats between thunder and lightning_

_Don’t be clever, dull your senses_

_One-thousand and two, one-thousand and three_

_Your senses and stay_

_It’s coming in from the Sea—_

About halfway to King’s Cross our train stopped, not abruptly, but a slow application of brakes.

"Attention passengers," an intercom kicked on, the voice calm if not a bit perplexed, "there seems to be a an obstruction ahead that will delay us for an indeterminable amount of time. Please remain seated and we will update you soon. We apologize for the inconvenience."

Buzzing instantaneously broke out among everyone, rising swiftly to a cicada murmur. Ann put down her iPhone, brows knit and we exchanged equal looks of suspicion.

Five minutes passed; our “update” came, a short and flippant acknowledgment that there actually was no update at all, and we were stuck.

The last train of the night - stuck.

Passengers shuffled uncomfortably, unsure whether to stick out the wait. Annie beckoned me over and we exited the train car accompanied by two other people. The four of us startled as a man was sat on a landing of the stairs, holding what looked like a balled up shirt to his profusely bleeding skull, a pool of red on cracked tiles, someone talking to him, keeping his focus.

Annie knew my affliction with seeing blood, ushering me around them and up an alternative set of stairs, across to the other side of the tracks where a tube map was on display.

I rubbed my arms to calm the irked, shivering part of my heart at the sight of the blood we passed by, everyone else most likely assuming he was stone-cold drunk out of his mind and got tripped up going down the steps.

But the inexplicably halted train, plus him set me on edge. When I glanced at Annie I knew she was wary as well, checking the digital clock on the wall, then peering at our transportation.

"I’d feel like a dick if I had to call my uncle this late to pick us up…" she said.

"Perhaps we can get a taxi…?" I suggested, but remembered we had only brought enough money for a tube ride, not a damn taxi.

A flicker of motion caught my peripheral. I turned, seeing a tall man across the tracks motioning us to come back toward the other side. My mouth opened slightly, hand rose of its own accord to confirm. “Annie, I think we should go back over.”

She pulled away from the map as I had already started up the steps once more, followed me as I shuffled right up to the stranger. I stared long and hard for some reason.

He observed the train, the injured gentlemen still sat waiting for an ambulance, as well as me, all ginger hair, cat-like eyes and mouth of stern marble peering down, texting rapidly in a way that made my vision spin.

Annie brushed up next to me, voicing my own unasked question, “Were they able to figure out or fix whatever was stopping us from moving?”

The stranger, who had to maybe be in his thirties, stopped his thumbs-on-fire texting to blink at the both of us as if just now realizing we were there, but he had known we had been standing next to him for some time.

"Obviously. I suggest, ladies, that you get back on." Short, off-hand, uninterested. A bit posh-sounding for someone in a beat-up university pullover and ripped jeans.

"But what about you?" I blurted out, startling myself a bit, blaming the shrillness of my own voice being on edge from the bleeding guy behind me.

The stoic stranger smiled, if that imperceptible twitch could actually be classified as one. He then softened, saddened. Recovered with a smirk. Whatever that instance had been he was now amused, pocketing his phone to extend in a more pleasant tone, “Irrelevant.”

Annie leaned into me still, looking him up and down, the intercom going off inside the train simultaneously, “Ladies and gentlemen, we have finally been cleared to continue - we appreciate your patience.”

Wait.

How had he known ahead of time -

"Enjoy the rest of your night. And your stay," I heard in the distance. The stranger was walking away, a small duffle under one arm.

I wanted to say “thank you” in all of my confused, muddled list of things to yell to this guy but the train doors were closing, Annie was shouting.

A woman came down the steps, flailing at his retreating figure when I made it behind the doors, trying to thank him for calling 999.

—

22 September 2011

11:06am; Selby

Even back up North for the remainder of my stay I couldn’t let go of the unusual series of events that happened in London. A service complication, not even 15 minutes in total. Everything that had transpired didn’t add up.

Annie and I didn’t speak of it much, though, but I ran the last thing she mentioned under her breath on the way to Finsbury Park and what he said to us through my head like a track on loop.

"His hands were black…"

His hands HAD been black; a ruddy dark-red actually, as if he’d just gotten done staining a cabinet or something.

"Enjoy the rest of your night. And your stay…"

Tourist. I was a tourist, I was from America, sure. Guess it was pretty apparent…mentioning it had just seemed so weird. HE was weird.

Why did I let it bother me so much?

My fingers played impatient staccato on the dining room table as Annie’s tiny laptop loaded. She asked if I wanted some tea from the kitchen - I requested coffee sweetly - which earned a laugh.

Should I bother her about it? Did she want to ask ME what I thought, dodging the subject assuming I wouldn’t care?

I moved the bitty mouse attached to the laptop lazily, MSN loading, the Today MSN news popping up—

**Small Miracles**

_Halted London train barely evades disaster._

"ANNIE."

_-last train for the Hammersmith & City line stopped at Baker Street-_

_-further investigation revealed possible terrorist intentions averted-_

_-three men in custody-_

_-an injured witness came forward immediately after hospitalization and claims to testify-_

_-bizarre connection to the thought-to-be closed case of recently deceased Sherlock Holmes and his fabricated adventures-_

_-questions now arise over the correlation between pseudonym James Moriarty and Richard Brook, the supposed actor Sherlock Holmes hired to fill the role of his archenemy-_

I kept scrolling, reading, swallowing a dry tongue.

"Ash…the man’s blog, Sherlock’s partner. John...John Watson, look at his blog."

It took me several blinks to make out what Annie had said, that she had been reading over my shoulder, before I opened another tab and searched for a blog I had not frequented in months. A lot of my friends back home and in England had started reading The personal blog of Dr. John H. Watson - after the first “case” he and a quite…eccentric ‘Consulting Detective’ by the name of Sherlock Holmes had become a viral sensation when it was published online.

No one could confirm nor discredit its validity as the events mentioned WERE real, but no one personally knew Dr. Watson and Sherlock Holmes, so they became…

Characters in a modern mystery novel…you could place yourself in their shoes. Seeing if you were three steps ahead like Sherlock, or the steadfast courageous John.

Finding a humor and deep affection for their strange companionship, a dynamic that seemed to be an integral fuel of each story John wrote, even if he didn’t quite understand this himself.

I’d never given it much more thought other than admiration. A special niche in my heart, cheering for two men I couldn’t be certain existed.

Until I had heard Sherlock Holmes was real, but had been accused of being a fraud. Making himself to be so keen out of vanity. Some speculated Dr. John H. Watson was a doting friend the very lonely Holmes conjured up, another paid actor.

Sherlock Holmes had died. Dr. Watson had mourned. Before the entries had become Read Only on the entire site a war had cropped up between those that supported the crime-fighting partners and nasty cynics, like that woman. Kitty Riley? I recalled feeling empty (if not too surprised) the world would be cruel as John had blogged just after Sherlock-

There.

Last entry was 16th June.

**Untitled.**

_He was my best friend and I’ll always believe in him._

_**Comments disabled.** _

The BBC News video Annie had streamed for me through Skype because it was region restricted. My finger hovered over play, collective breathes hitched.

I clicked. 28 seconds in we both grabbed for each other.

A picture of Sherlock Holmes. My skin prickled.

Dark hair, black Belstaff, out-of-place deerstalker hat be damned.

That was the ginger man on the tube platform. That had been Sherlock Holmes.

He was meant to be dead.

He was meant to be wrong.

A deceased liar had inadvertently saved out lives.

_not dead - not a liar - hiding - protecting? - Moriarty - the train_

Annie turned to me, trying to decipher the emotions on my face, and I mirrored the action.

I believe The Blog of Dr. John H. Watson.

I believe Dr. Watson.

I believe in Sherlock Holmes.

—

**3 Moran associates pacified and train car explosive disarmed. More information to follow. - SH**

**The authorities will be there soon. Go straight to Heathrow. - MH**

**Check to make sure John was not targeted; they were setting up directly beneath Baker St. - SH**

**Do not make me regret helping you and hurting him. - MH**

_"But what about you?"_

**Wait for my next text. - SH**

_There’s a rumour goin’ around that you’ve been_

_Talking to the house detective_

 –-----

06 Jul 2013

10:37AM; Leeds, West Yorkshire

Leeds General Infirmary was strikingly familiar yet complacently different than any hospital I’d ever been to, and I unfortunately had been to almost every one Chicago’s city had to offer for some reason or another.

This place would always look more Old World on the outside, though.

Thankfully there wasn’t any numbing, frightening reason for me to be here. Annie was getting a consultation done, and I was too proud that she was over her aversion of doctors to be put out being in Pavlov central.

As it was, I had my own recalcitrant uneasiness for health facilities. Just one whiff of sterile antiseptic and my stomach was doing a nice Sonic Super Spin Dash impersonation.

It’d only been a few hours since I’d been picked up at the airport, and we’d gone straight here as Annie had said, so my ebbing sluggish bought of jetlag made the hairs on the back of my neck stand significantly less.

For now.

I could only hope, though, that I didn’t look too much like a manic homeless person in day old clothing, white-knuckling Annie’s enormous black-hole Accessorize purse on my lap, all by my lonesome.

Dearest Mummy McManaman, if you could come back with that coffee soon, that’d be great!

At least Annie’s mom would also help keep the crazies at bay. I was beginning to think I could tell whenever a phlebotomy nurse was wheeling their nasty cart of bloody death nearby.

Hospitals. Ugh.

Had to manage through another 45 minutes or so and Annie would be done, we’d be at the house so I could go comatose for a bit, then make our way back to Leeds for Charlie’s the rest of the weekend.

Which is about when I started to actually go insane. Certifiably. Maybe from jetlag, or overactive needle and blood phobia. A mixture of all the above.

There was a man in the corridor adjacent the seating area I currently occupied. He was speaking familiarly, softly with a comely brunette woman about his height. They were both in white coats, ID badges secured on lapels to be easily visible. He had such cute round ears, but close-cut peppered blonde hair and a smile that I knew was handsome, although the one on his mien now was currently lacking.

If I hadn’t stared intermittently at his little blog avatar for at least a month after Annie and my fortuitous, fucking insane brush with death almost a couple years ago, I may not have been able to pick him out from a crowd. He was so…unassuming.

No, that wasn’t it.

Regardless, I was now ogling at one Dr. John H. Watson and could bet my unremarkable life on it.

Oh God, how surreal…

What the hell was he doing up North?

I don’t care if you have or had a hero, a celebrity crush, a nemesis, a thing for a teacher, wished on every star someone would be your friend; everyone has had a pretend conversation with someone they’ve wanted to meet, or you’re a terrible liar. When I learned that Sherlock Holmes was, in fact, very much alive and had unknowingly saved me I had wanted to steal a Tardis, or a DeLorean, to go back in time so I could grab him, shake him, shout at him – belatedly realizing I’d have to get in the longest queue England had to offer for that.

Annie and I both agreed to not breathe a word about it, and no one else that had been on the train, or helped the injured man on the platform, ever came forward if they had known what we had known. How would you be able to even spin that bullshit? To family or to the press? Hell, I was studying to become a Journalist and knew a Pulitzer winner couldn’t have coalesced anyone’s statements from that night and make it believable.

As if he’d meant it to be that way.

The information that HAD been printed, questioning Kitty Riley’s slanderous article, faded into obscurity. So Sherlock Holmes could stay shunned, and dead.

And, like a last request, we had wordlessly given him that. I ignored every bit of graffiti or tag near my hometown that boasted “I believe in Sherlock Holmes!” “Jim Moriarty is the fake” or “I fight John Waston’s war”. The random person that would mention it in passing until quiet would drown it out.

But this, this chance to speak to John Watson, the other half. The blogger, the soldier. The friend who had also served, protected, inspired.

Did he know? Was he apart of it? Whatever Sherlock had ridden off into the sunset to do, to defend, or to run from, he could be dead now.

But no.

He was beyond that – the bastard was nearly invincible.

The brunette physician had departed with a lingering hand to Dr. Watson’s forearm and he stood contemplatively in the quiet of the corridor, and then he looked right at me. His manufactured smile was gone completely, brows knitting into a flat line, mouth matching.

Oh.

When had I stood up? Or gotten so close?

What was I doing again?

“Hi,” I said, eloquent as the day is long, and quickly reigned myself in. Passions calmed. Blink like a normal human being. “Um, I’m so sorry if I’m bothering you, but -”

And there, somehow I must seem endearing in my floundering, because John’s very guarded and reserved pinch in his expression relaxed by a minute amount. He put out his palm plaintively, murmuring, “It’s no trouble at all, but I’m unfortunately a visiting physician. You’d need to talk to the main desk about traveler’s insurance. I know damn all about how it works here. I’m on a break, I could show you where. Don’t have to be back where I’m needed until…” he glanced at his watch, selfless and actually considering using up his lunch time to cart me around a place he barely knew, “half passed 11.”

Christ, right. American. Clearly looking like a lost child in need of an adult. Good start.

“Ah, no, shit. OK, this is going to sound…really bizarre. And if you about face, go on your way after I say this, I don’t blame you. But I wanted to talk to you, Dr. Watson. If I could.”

His face shifted once more, age lines prominent around his mouth now.

Ever since Sherlock’s Fall he’d probably started a myriad of conversations more than he’d like with something so tepid as that.

Talk fast, talk fast!

“Or, or you don’t even have to say anything! I just want to tell you…a story. Something that happened to me. It’s short, I promise. Please, please hear me out.” I wasn’t quite begging, but it was just so.

He remained ramrod straight, at full attention, but his guard was back up swifter than I had anticipated.

My heart went out to him.

He dipped his head, and I wasted no more valuable time.

“Almost two years I visited England on holiday – to see a friend. She’s here, with me, in fact. We went to London for about a week, and during our stay we had a fairly late night and barely made the last train. It was the Hammersmith and City Line.” Something visibly tightened further in the doctor’s stance, and I plowed on. He had to have known exactly where this was going after that. “Only after a bit we were stopped. Something was blocking us up ahead. It seemed fine, until…it was announced that they weren’t sure how long it would take.

“My friend and I got out, not sure what to do. She wanted to check other lines to see if we could hop on somewhere else and walk the rest of the way. There was an injured man on the steps. Head wound…” I gulped audibly, as I witnessed the man in front of me transform into a coiled thing. “You…you must know where this is going. Read the…the article.”

“Yes.”

He was cool and unemotional.

I gave myself a second to reconvene, extremely intimidated by this shift in him. This was Sherlock Holmes’s blogger. The ex-soldier. His friend. Waiting for some sort of conspiracy theory, further defamation, inane questions.

Oh John..

“What you didn’t read was…just before we were allowed back on the train a man got our attention. Told us that everything was fine, and we’d continue on. He was so…distracted, uncaring about it, texting in his cell, and I hadn’t remembered him being in the train car with us. We were the last car at the end; the only ones that could leave to go on the platform. I asked him why he wasn’t getting back on. And…he said the most peculiar thing. One word.”

John’s left hand started to tremor so hard I foolishly wanted to reach out and grasp it.

“’Irrelevant.’ It took Annie and I until we were back in Selby to let it go. It was pretty messed up to begin with – then we saw that article online. A-about the bomb. I promised myself I wouldn’t say a damn thing, ‘cause it’s so…fucked up,” I exhaled wetly, hating that there was burning and tears behind my eyes. Was I having a panic attack? “I just saw you, and…and had to say something. Had to tell you, say thank you for…never giving up and…writing…” There was a rough, warm palm in mine, like an anchor. “I’ve wanted to thank him so much. But I haven’t…”

Something similar must have been brought to John's attention before I had. He didn’t seem unworried, but neither was he rocked to his foundations. Probably saw his old partner from the corner of his eye for what seemed like decades. Saw the same messages from fans, believers; on brick, on billboards. Thought he was chasing a ghost with the rest of the world. What I had told (blubbered pathetically) Dr. Watson seemed to assure something in him, deep and air-locked away.

I had most definitely gone mad, I decided, when I was sure I could see something healing in him, slowly. From some strange tourist’s hero worship.

His grip tightened in a brief, grateful sort of squeeze that was also comforting for me. Ridiculous.

And at that very inappropriate moment a cheerful chime jingled from his pocket. We both startled, and I felt a borderline hysterical laugh bubble up from me when I recognized what it was.

Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy by Queen.

An embarrassed but pleased part of me enjoyed seeing Dr. John H. Watson finally become flustered and awkward during this conversation as he ferreted for the mobile in his big white coat, head hanging as he uttered “Mary” with fond aggravation.

It hadn’t been the most optimal note to end my story/platitude/weeping, but I tried to surreptitiously leave the man’s hold and preserve what dignity I had left.

To my surprise he jerked, indicating for me to say, so I stopped and waited.

“Hullo, love,” he began, and there was that genuine smile, soft and boyish as his gaze met mine again. “Alright? Good, great. Yeah. Still have plenty of time on my break – was just speaking with a…student. Fan of my blog.” Of all things, that had the tears finally falling as I laughed, quieter. “No, you’re not interrupting. She got a kick out of the new ringtone you gave me for when you call though. Ta for that, you cheeky…” He started to drift away at last, dark blue eyes kind in wordless ways I couldn’t begin to fathom.

I raised a hand to bid him farewell, just like a certain someone had done to signal me back onto the train. Full circle. _It's alright now, it's safe._

He disappeared at length and I floated back to the seating area where Annie’s mom was holding two cups of coffee, eyebrows almost lost in her fringe.

“Ashley. What…”

I took the porcelain cup meant for me, thanking her profusely, and avoided the rest of that question by plopping into my vacated chair with a sigh to end all sighs.

Annie’s mom was a smart woman, had known me for almost a decade, so she tactfully changed subjects, having me in stitches about ghastly IT-related tales until Annie came out.

Our tittering stopped. She looked a strange mixture of pale, flushed and horrifically bemused.

Before either of us could say anything she whispered:

“I think..the doctor that examined me...”

We all whipped around as a tall man re-positioned the stethoscope about his neck, peering down the hall Dr. Watson had gone.

Then, he too, was gone.

-

06 April 2014

12:05PM; Selby

Spring in England was a perfect remnant of overcast and frost.

Annie placed a well-stocked plate of warmed pita bread, hummus, brie and salty cheese with cheese toasties for us to devour during our packing break. There had to be 6 boxes filled to bursting with dresses.

Kev had already come by, trolled the life out of his younger sister, but still confirmed he’d help with the rest when it came to heavy books and dissembling her bed to ship out to her new uni address in the states.

He was heckled by both of us to not swan off to his empty house, pop a squat, have some of Annie’s shit tea, and he did with much grousing.

We settled in and turned on the TV, flipping through channels (Kev mentioned something about a football game rerun). Suddenly, we all did a spit-take the Three Stooges would have been proud of (as Kev nicked part of Ann’s toastie).

BBC News was airing, and a man labeled with the helpful banner of Greg Lestrade flashed temporarily across the screen. A sea of rapt, gobsmacked reporters leaned toward the man eagerly. A camera promptly switched over to an utterly unamused, living and breathing Consulting Detective, Sherlock Holmes.

Annie and I stood up, hollering unintelligibly like we were actually watching a football match, our team finally making a winning goal.

Took you long enough, you dramatic madman.

Good had really triumphed over Evil.

Believing in Sherlock Holmes was a job all in itself.

I noticed, while Annie was explaining everything to Kev (he made sure to say “as fucking if” at every interval), what looked like a hastily concealed bruise on the consulting detective’s jaw. Just along the curve of said bruise was a barely discernible smirk.

I thought of John and let out another crow of triumph and happiness.

-

_Oh doctor, where’s the sun?_

_When you’re down in this hole_

_With the medicine chest_

 


End file.
